s in all, of which many had to be
amended, pruned, sub-edited, and rewritten; each was directed to a
plain private address in Berlin, and each was to be answered to the
address of Herr Haase. One, which gave more trouble than any of the
others, was to Siegfried Meyer, Number One, Unter den Linden; it was
long before the Baron and Von Wetten could smooth its phrases to a
suavity and deference which satisfied them. Coffee was brought them
to lubricate their labors, but none to Herr Haase; his part was to
write down, scratch out, rewrite, while beyond the windows the night
marched up from the east and the lake grew bleak and vague.

"Now, my good Haase," said the Baron, when the last word-fabric was
decided upon and confirmed, "you will take those home with you, put
them into code, and dispatch them. You should have the last of them
off by midnight. And to-morrow, when the answers begin to come, you
will report here as quickly as possible."

"Zu befehl, Excellenz," said Herr Haase, his hands full of papers.

"Then good night, my good Haase," said the Baron.

"Good night to your Excellency," returned Herr Haase, from the
doorway. "Good night, Herr Hauptmann!" to Von Wetten's back.

"Shut the door," replied Von Wetten.

There was a moon at midnight, a great dull disc of soft light
touching the antique gables and cloistered streets of the little city
to glamour, blackening the shadows under the arches, and streaking
the many channels of the swift river with long reflections. Herr
Haase, returning from the telegraph office, walked noiseless as a
ghost through those ancient streets, for he had soft bedroom slippers
on his feet. His work was done for the day; he had put off business
as one lays aside a garment. From his lips ascended the mild incense
of one of those moist yellow cigars they make at Vevey. He paused
upon the first bridge to gaze down upon the smooth, hurrying water,
and his soul that soul which served the general purpose of a
monkey-wrench in adjusting the machine of history spoke aloud.

"A rum-punch," it confided to the night and the moon. "Yes, two
glasses; and a belegtes Brodchen; and a warm foot-bath. And then,
bed!"

Not for him, at any rate, were the doubts and hopes that tangled in
the Baron von Steinlach's massive head. A man with sore feet is prone
to feel that the ground he stands on is at least solid. In his
pleasant veranda next morning, with his coffee fragrant before him on
the chequered